


On Refusing to Let Go

by 2x2verse (agent_florida)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anal Fingering, Body Worship, Cuddling & Snuggling, Hand Jobs, Light Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-03-01 03:29:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2757899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_florida/pseuds/2x2verse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Just let me love on you a little," John actually whines.</p><p>When he gives you those puppy-dog eyes, you might even feel a little guilty. “I,” you start to say. He knows how you get when he does this. It’s… weird. It just feels weird still—doesn’t matter how long you’ve known him or how long your relationship with him has been like this. Having his affection plastered all over you so openly and honestly is overwhelming almost to the point of discomfort. Accepting it is an exercise in mental gymnastics, needing to convince yourself you’re worthy of this even when his hands and mouth and skin and words and warmth should be enough to show you. “Why,” you say instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Refusing to Let Go

"Hey," you say once John stumbles in the door. He looks like something your lusus might drag in, bedraggled and rumpled; his hair is sticking up in five different directions, not helped by his compulsion to ruffle it when he’s thinking. You tuck the front flap of the dustjacket into your book to mark your page, then make the effort to climb out of the oversize armchair so you can greet your… well, whatever. He deserves a proper greeting, no matter how many of you there are in this fuckjumbled relationship. "How was your exam?"

"I don’t know," he drawls, a sheepish smile spreading across his face. "I told Professor Powell I’d see him next semester when I dropped off the Scantron."

"You passed," you tell him. Not for reassurance, just as a statement of fact. The reassurance part comes when you hug him, arms wrapping around his waist and nose nuzzling into the center of his chest.

He hugs you back gladly. “God, I haven’t had a hug from you in a long time.”

"I hug you all the time, asshole."

"Not like this." That’s true. You don’t exactly want to let go, even though the two of you should really close the front door properly and get out of everyone’s way. "I don’t want to let go."

"Unless you’ve found a way to—" Welp. Your feet are suddenly six inches from the floor, and a gust of wind has blown the door shut behind the two of you. "You windsock-headed shitmouth, how many times do I need to tell you not to cheat with your godtier powers?" He says it’s not a party trick, then he pulls this shit all the time.

"At least one more," John says. When you look up, he has that turd-sucking grin on his face. (You cross-referenced it with Strider once—apparently he gets that same lopsided, goofy grin on his face when he’s about to pull some sort of prank in the middle of sex, including spontaneous salad-tossing after he tosses one of you on your stomach and goes to town.) "Come on, I don’t want to let go and this is the easiest way to get up the stairs."

You grumble, but genially. It always gives you a swoop in your stomach when he does this, and you can maybe even grudgingly admit to yourself that you want to see what else he can do. But John’s stingy with this. He only lets it out when it comes naturally. So he has to be in an incredibly good mood.

You can work with this. Probably. Even though he interrupted you while you were re-reading  _In Which A Violetblood Moves Into A New Hive, Meets His Jadeblood Neighbor, And Proceeds To Court Her Into His Flushed Quadrant With Much Disapproval From His Blueblood Moirail; The Jadeblood’s Oliveblood Moirail Enters Into Several Altercations With The Blueblood; The Jadeblood And Violetblood Are Estranged Due To The Blueblood’s Machinations While The Oliveblood Encourages The Jadeblood To Continue The Flushed Courtship; The Oliveblood Is Nearly Forced By Her Lusus Into A Kismessitude With An Indigoblood But Refuses The Arrangement; Meanwhile The Blueblood Acknowledges His Increasing Fascination With The Oliveblood And Begins To Pitch At Her Mercilessly And Without The Oliveblood’s Permission; The Blueblood Capitulates To The Oliveblood’s Angry Demands And Assists Her Brood Out Of Several Unsavory Situations; The Oliveblood Begins To Realize That She And The Blueblood Could After All Be Quite Complimentary In Either Mating Quadrant; And The Two Sets Of Moirails End In Satisfying Matespritships. Contains A Scandalous Quadrant-Ambiguous Tryst Between A Yellowblood And A Copperblood Masquerading As A Blueblood, An Ambitious Auspistice For What Could Be A Flushed Quadrant, And Initial Quadrant Vacillation Between The Blueblood And The Oliveblood, But No Consummation Scenes Of Any Sort. Romantic Propaganda Appropriate For Those Three Sweeps And Up_. For the tenth time. (You should probably start reading the version with zombies—you’ve heard the jadeblood absolutely goes to town with her lipstick-chainsaw.)

John abruptly drops the two of you. Thankfully, there’s a mattress there to catch you. Your limbs are still tangled with his, but happily. His nose is firmly pressed into the point where your jaw meets the space below your ear, his lips pressing strange chaste little kisses along a tendon in your neck. “Augh, that tickles, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” you sputter ineffectually.

"Just let me love on you a little," John actually  _whines._

When he gives you those puppy-dog eyes, you might even feel a little guilty. “I,” you start to say. He knows how you get when he does this. It’s… weird. It just feels weird still—doesn’t matter how long you’ve known him or how long your relationship with him has been like this. Having his affection plastered all over you so openly and honestly is overwhelming almost to the point of discomfort. Accepting it is an exercise in mental gymnastics, needing to convince yourself you’re worthy of this even when his hands and mouth and skin and words and warmth should be enough to show you. “Why,” you say instead.

"Do I need a reason?" He doesn’t. He presses swift, silly smooches all along the sharp of your jaw, the slight cling of stubborn stubble, making obnoxious smacking sounds with his lips all the while. "I just… want to, is that okay? That hug was amazing and I know I’ve been ignoring you and—please?"

Like he even had to ask—though you’re glad he’s doing so, the earnestness of his plea for consent touching your pusher and making it twinge like it’s striking a major chord in the key of Egbert. “Yes, but—”

"I know," he says quietly. Your boundaries. He’s never been anything but respectful. Sometimes you think you’ve actually communicated the ‘st’ part of the word telepathically, because he seems to inherently know when he’s pushed you too far. "I just—it’s been just me studying for that test and I missed you and I’ve kinda wantedtofoolaroundwithyouforthepastfewdays," comes out in a rush. _  
_

"So start fucking fooling around already," you grumble.

No sooner does it come out of your mouth than he takes your permission and fucking runs with it. Sprints headlong into it, taking the front of your jaw between thumb and forefinger and guiding your mouth to his so he can fucking  _claim_  it. Soft, slow. Persuasive. Sweep of his lips plucking against yours until you feel dizzy, then licking into the wet want of your mouth when you gasp at what he’s doing to you. Even when you breathe it’s nothing but  _John, John,_  sharp gales through pine branches and curling around mountain peaks before settling around you, set through with laundry detergent and anti-dandruff shampoo and the undeniably human scent of him that leaves you almost  _hungry_.

And as starving as you are for this attention, John seems absolutely ravenous. He gently rolls the two of you until you’re on your back and he’s over you, claiming your mouth like he could write onto the point of your tongue all the reasons he adores you. And it’s so much, almost too much, the heady thump of your pusher making you pulse under your skin, so loud it might even drown out your internal monologue of rampant self-directed verbal abuse. He kisses you and kisses you and kisses you, mouth clinging even when he draws back for breath, and it’s all you can do to get your fingers in his hair and hold on for dear life.

His hands are large. One sweeps down your front like his fingertips could memorize your body if he tried hard enough—it feels like this every time and you hope he never quite learns you by heart. Your legs are still tangled in his, and he has an arm cradled around your shoulders keeping you close. Okay, maybe you could just stay like this all afternoon. Cuddling up, almost pale, with the undoubtedly flushed way he’s kissing you. Fifty shades of red, all of them blooming under your skin.

John’s teeth catch in your lower lip. Not on purpose, but when he tugs, you know he meant that part. The way he’s kissing you is unhurried, even patient. Not like he’s waiting for something, but like you’re worth taking his time. And not like he has to get you anywhere, but that he has you right where he wants you, and he’s right where he wants to be, too. “This might be one of my favorite places in the world,” he admits, breath soft against your face. You can feel every gust against your lips, hot and oversensitive from his kisses.

You don’t have the gusto right now to argue with him, because for once, you agree. This is perfect. Wonderful, even, John utterly at peace and showing you how to be tranquil too, hand-holding you as he shows you how deep these still waters run. “Missed you,” you admit, hating yourself for this moment of weakness.

John feels the cringe in your shoulders—he smooths out the worst of it with broad sweeps of his thumb between your shoulderblades—but he doesn’t comment on it. What might be worsebetter, he matches his mouth with yours again and the resistance melts out of you. “Good to know I wasn’t alone in feeling like that,” he murmurs. “Can I—”

"Anything," you preempt him.

"—maybe undo your pants?" he finishes his question.

Oh. Yeah, he can do that, but you know where this is going. When the two of you are tangled like this and he starts in on your sensitives, it feels like he’s trying to worship you, and it’s so intense it almost makes you cry. Almost? Has done. More than once, embarrassingly enough. To avoid having to say a word, you swallow around the lump in your throat and undo the button and zip yourself.

"Ah," John says, and his smile is soft and genuine. He plants a soft row of kisses on the soft skin of your throat, right where it feels like you’ve suddenly swallowed a rock, and your breath comes in raspy, goes out in a barely-noticeable chitter. Already. God, you’re so easy, you’re a slut for being romanced like this, the self-berating nonsense in your head just won’t stop—

One of John’s broad hands, the one not holding you close, traces the outline of your body again. Pets down your flank, massages at your hip for a few seconds. Then he dives in—gradually. Fingertips introduced first, finding the questing tip of your bulge, already out from this. You feel like a whore, ashamed you can’t show better self-control. You’re a friendleader, John has to expect more out of you, you expect more out of yourself for fuck’s sake—

—but John is a friendleader too, and he knows when he has to take the reins, and he knows that when he does you’ll follow him without question.

He whispers the palm of his hand against the underside of your bulge and you cry out, clinging to him and pressing as close to his body as you can.

It’s like every time down here is his first. He takes his time charming your junk, getting it used to the feel of hands not your own. Gently loops his fingers around the base of your bulge, then tracing the taper up to the tip. Feels you out like he’s trying to listen with his hands to the texture of you. You try to breathe and hiccup instead, bulge quirking in his grip.

John lets you thrash a little. Just a little, though, because then he’s closing down his grip. Gentle, but undeniably firm. The almost-unnoticeable ridge-ripples at the sides of your bulge, the attempt at seadweller bulgefins, flutter at this. It’s devastating in the best way. John holds you closer because you’re actually shaking under his ministrations. “Can I—”

"The answer’s always yes until it’s no," you snap at him.

"Shoosh," this stupid dumb quadrant-blurring idiot moron tells you, and slips his hand back down. Then further, questing with his fingertips in the seam between your legs. Between your shame globes, still soft but starting to swell red with a fill of slurry. Back further, into the no-man’s land between your front and back, and he presses up with his fingertips and it shouldn’t feel that good to have that weird sort of indirect pressure against nerve endings that are hidden away but it feels amazing regardless and heat rushes under your skin, pulse hammering through every place you’re sensitive. "Want to—to," and he can’t say it either, the two of you communicating in little more than body heat and expressive erotic dance—so instead he puts his slick fingertips against your entrance and  _rubs,_ perfectly molten and frictionless. “Yes?”

"Yes," you hiss back at him, and spread your legs for him.

You’d feel cheap for this, but John makes you feel priceless instead. Like you’re this treasured thing he wants to protect and revere and dote on and  _love_. Your thoracic cavity feels too small for your pumpbiscuit and you tuck yourself further into John’s embrace. He kisses your forehead, your temple, the rise of your cheek and then the hollow, eventually the corner of your mouth—your mouth itself is open, slack and trembling as he works his fingertips on you. Into you, you realize, the imperceptible give an inexorable conclusion from his manual persuasion.

He opens you and you let him in with something like a sob in reverse, sucking in too much air—air that he willingly gives you because he knows you can’t breathe. Under your hear ducts, you can tell his heart is racing just as fast as yours. His mouth is a smear all along the side of your face as his one finger plunges, seeking—finding, sending a jolt along your senses—draws back and then thrusts back in again, smooth and calculated. He’s so good with his hands.

It’s like being adrift on open ocean, suspended above the deeps of the sea. There are terrifying things lingering for you somewhere under the surface: the fear simmering somewhere in your gut that he’ll stop when he realizes you don’t deserve this, the panic churning alongside it that maybe you do and you just don’t know how to handle it, the raw sensation itself threatening to drown you. But the waters are calm and the night is clear, John rocking you slowly but acting as an anchor so you don’t drift too far away from here, now, him, yes, this.

His wrist nudges insistently against the underside of your bulge’s base with each thrust of his hand into you. “Wrap around,” he encourages you, then nibbles on the tip of your ear.

Given permission, you’ll do so gladly. Your bulge circles perfectly around his wrist, tip just meeting the base. And you like the feel of it, too, the knob on the one side where his bone juts out, his pulse thudding under your tip so sensitive you can feel it like it’s jumping out of his skin. “God,” you sigh out, voice too shaky for it to be any louder than a whisper. It’s good, so good—too good, you’re not good enough—

Another finger sidles in alongside the first. John knows you’re talking yourself out of it, and he’s arguing back the best way he knows how: by overwhelming you with sensation until you can’t even think those self-flagellating thoughts. But you stubbornly cling—it’s comfortable and familiar—refuse to let go, even as your bulge refuses to let go of his wrist and your fists refuse to let go of where they’re balled up in his shirt. Cling too to his fingers on each slip-slide, even as they nudge against nerve endings that light you up white-hot and perfect.

"Shoosh," John tells you again, and kisses your cheek—wet, maybe not just from his lips, god you’re an embarrassment and he still loves you, doesn’t have to say it in words but tells you with his body, fucks it into you with his fingers until you have no choice but to believe him. "Don’t fight. Please. Don’t."

"I can’t," you try to say, but your voice cracks in the middle. With every movement of his fingers your bulge also slides on his wrist like some perverse kind of bracelet for him; there’s pink smeared halfway up his forearm by now. You’re close but you can’t get there, can’t let John see what a mess he makes of you, can’t admit this weakness.

"I don’t want to fight you for this." John’s voice is hoarse and honest. His fingertips dig in, crooking forward, and he flips a switch in you that makes you light up from scalp to soles. "Let go, Karkat—"

"I can’t—"

"Let go," he repeats, this time with an undertone of command.

You promptly shatter, particles dissolving into the air as you spill. John never lets up, coaxes you through it with his words and his lips and his movements, gives it to you steady and slow and sure, just on this edge of unbearable but definitely crossing the line of overwhelming. The sound you make is like someone just killed you instead of making you cum, but John cuddles you impossibly closer, keeping you in constant contact with his body so you never quite lose the lines of your own.

It’s only later that you realize he’s been saying your name the whole time. Even when he pulls away his fingers you don’t want him to go—want him insufflating your pores, radiating through you and not just against you, on you. Your bulge is getting shy but it still clings to him as long as it can. Your breathing is uneven, ragged, like you just hit ground after a five-mile freefall.

And John was there to catch you.


End file.
